


prescriptions & pirate coins

by glassy_light



Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Drug Dealer au, Gen, YES i watched light sleeper YES i loved it YES i am ashamed, all i can think about is the "dont call me 'king' im your dealer!" meme, also if ur from jersey im sorry, anyway. marcus is baby. thank u n goodnight, crackfic!!!!, i luv how my tags are. never helpful. xoxo, i luv u but ive almost died on the highway 2 many times to remain unbiased, imagine using HTML. this post made by rich text gang, marcus is jaded as usual, ooc ??? idfk, thats it thats them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:27:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23084752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glassy_light/pseuds/glassy_light
Summary: Marcus, at Winston's request, has one last delivery for the night.
Relationships: Marcus & John Wick
Kudos: 2





	prescriptions & pirate coins

Marcus was standing in an empty car of a subway train, watching graffiti hurtle past the window through the dark. He was coming back into the city after running a delivery to some old friend of Winston’s over in Jersey City, had sat in an old woman's monied dining room as she told him about her grandkids. After an hour of listening to her nasal voice drone on, just an octave above bearable, he was starting to melt around the edges. The portraits over the mantle were starting to blink. Every interaction with these people was absurd, and maybe a younger man would find it amusing. The years had worn any initial novelty to dust beneath its marching boot. Not every drug-induced epiphany deserved an hour-long monologue. 

Just as he stepped across the yellow line of the concrete boarding platform, the doors snapping shut behind him, his phone beeped twice in his pocket. Winston. He moved to stand by a concrete support and landed squarely in a wad of mint chewed gum. Great.

 _Can you run to East Midtown for me._ Winston’s message blinked against the blue glow of his phone screen. Behind him, the train lurched to a metallic, grinding start and disappeared into the dark.

 _I just got back to brooklyn, fuck off._ Marcus was tired, too tired. Hypnotic visions of his bed were dancing through his mind. His keys were heavy in his pocket. He was ready to ignore Winston, to just hop in a cab and be home, but another message vibrated in his pocket as he made his way up onto the street.

 _It’s good money, I’ll up your cut._ Marcus groaned and zipped his jacket against the February wind, phone in one hand. He bumped into a woman in a feathery yellow jacket and earning a fantastic rendition of the classic, “Fuck you, asshole! I’m from New York!” speech everyone seemed so eager to give.

 _ill do it if i can keep all the money from the nj lady_.

_That’s a little much. Can’t you just help an old friend?_

Marcus heaved a sigh and breathed a puff of mist in the cold. _no. i just spent an hour listening to a psycho wax poetic about her terriers death. ill keep it all n we can say it’s even. send address._ She was, he decided, definitely psycho. No sane person has _that_ many stuffed pets. Even for Jersey it was a little much.

 _Fine._ A message loaded for too long; His fingers were starting to feel numb. He flexed his hand and moved to the curb. Taxis kept floating by in the blinking stream of traffic, but not one stopped. _70 w 37th St. Tell the doorman you’re there for J.Wick. He’s in the penthouse. I hope you know you’re a pain in the ass, and that I will do it myself next time._

 _thanks. also good. i dont want to be out till,_ he checked the time and groaned, _4 anymore._

_Then work for somebody else. Charon will be happy to pick up the slack._

He almost laughed at that, would have if it wasn’t fucking 4 am, because he could see Winston getting red in the face as he fed bills into the cash counter, Charon dutifully weighing out drugs and piling the translucent little skins of plastic bags in a neat stack. Marcus had known Winston since he was selling on the street, since before they were rich enough to work exclusively with NYC’s upper echelon. He wasn’t getting fired, and they both knew it. Charon, however dutiful, was a distant workaholic. 

Marcus walked a block in the vague direction he thought he should be heading in before a yellow taxi rolled to a stop in front of him. He resigned himself to whatever fate Winston thought fit and read the glowing text of the address to the driver, who promptly swung the car around, weaving between cars and 

The doorman was a stoop-shouldered, red-nosed in the cold. He didn’t turn to face Marcus as he approached, instead angling himself decidedly away, as if this would deter him. 

“Here to visit Mr. Wick.” The doorman nodded curtly, eyebrows raised high enough that they disappeared behind the brim of his cap. There was a sense that late-night deliveries were commonplace, and that he knew what was happening behind closed doors. But all the same, he held the door with a white-gloved hand and smiled thinly.

The lobby was clean and stately, marble-floored and freshly swept. A woman was half asleep on her elbow behind the dark wood of the desk. There was no wait for the elevator. When pressed, the PH button glowed cheerfully. His feet were starting to ache.

He knocked twice, waited two minutes, knocked again. Eventually, there was the sound of someone walking (stumbling?) to the door. It swung wide open to reveal a dark-haired man, cleanly shaven, in a button-down and black slacks. He looked stuck somewhere between angry and unaffected. Marcus took a deep breath.

“...Winston?” 

Marcus stepped forward, hand outstretched, and smiled because being personable was part of the job, “No, but I work for him.”

“Oh. He didn’t tell me. I’m John.” He seemed slightly unsteady on his feet, and Marcus guessed he was more than a little drunk. A dog was skittering across the parquet floor somewhere in the recesses of the apartment behind him.

“Marcus.”

The door opened wider, and John led him to the kitchen. There was an empty bottle of wine by the sink, and another one freshly opened. He was cold and awkward, and was struggling through an attempt at offering Marcus something to drink that was taking entirely too long. “Ah, No, thanks.” He shook his head and moved to sit at the kitchen island, “How much are you buying? Winston didn’t tell me that.” 

“Oh. Sorry. I’ll take all the painkillers you have.”

There was a surprise. Marcus had in his pocket a ziplock with maybe twenty of round white pills, and the going price was high enough that he guessed even John wouldn’t have enough to pay, on hand at least. But he didn’t want to be rude, so he took out the bag and set it on the counter. 

“You know the price?” He leaned down to let a beagle puppy nose at his hand, and tried to swallow back a yawn. The clock on the stove glowed 5:05 in caustic neon. 

“Yes,” John reached into his pocket, brought out a leather billfold, and held out a golden disk.

Marcus blinked. “Is that a Sacagawea coin?” He was trying hard to keep his tone neutral but it was late, or early, rather, and he just wanted to be home. 

John looked surprised and then inspected the glint of metal in his palm, “No?” The two stared at each other in muffled bewilderment and thinly-veiled concern. 5:08.

“...Maybe I should call Winston.”

“Go ahead.” John sounded mildly alarmed.

What the hell? He pulled out his phone and was thankful, for once, that Winston was on speed-dial. They sat in uncomfortable silence while the phone rang and beeped to voicemail. He tried again, but was met with Winston’s automated message declaring he would get back to him soon. Marcus didn’t have the patience for this. He could pocket the Jersey City money, take the coin, and call it Winston’s loss. He hung up with his thumb and set his phone down on the counter. 

“You know what, John, I’ll take the coin.”

John nodded, “It’s worth a lot. Ask Winston, this is how we’ve always done it.”

“Oh yeah?” He peeled himself from the stool and stretched. John slid the coin across the countertop. Marcus pinned it down with an index finger and picked it up, tilting it in the light. It was heavy, etched with a lion and something in Latin. It looked cult-y. Whatever.

“Yeah, you can use it all over the underworld. Respectable places, too. I’m sure half of New York runs on the stuff,” Marcus looked up at John, whose face was as expressive as he’d seen it, a picture of deep embarrassment.

“Because,” he tacked on quickly, “You know. Erm. It’s untraceable.” That didn’t sound any better, and didn’t make much sense. Marcus was trying not to make a “what the fuck” face, but it must have registered to John, however drunk, because he only kept going.

“Since if you are a murderer you don't want to be found. Which I am. Or a drug dealer. Which you are. Uh.” John swallowed.

“Okay,” Marcus took a cautious step towards the door, “Funny. Good joke, I’ll tell Winston you got me.” Jesus Christ, he had to get out of here before he was murdered and disposed of in Bryant Park. He shivered at the thought of being reduced to a feast for pigeons. Winston wouldn’t even get the right flowers for his funeral. And all he fucking wanted was to go to bed. 

“Haha. Yeah. Are you sure you don’t want anything to drink? Winston told me you,” he turned towards an alcohol cabinet and pulled out another crystal wine glass, “love a good,” he squinted at the label of the bottle, “...rosé?” He was going to kill Winston next time he saw him.

“No, really-”

“It’s not a bother. Here, just take the bottle.” He moved around to stand next to Marcus, who was sweating and trying hard not to show it. When John clapped him on the shoulder he grimaced and tried to disguise it as a smile, and then he was holding a bottle in clammy hands and being led to the door. John was babbling something about how much it meant that Winston always had a good supply of painkillers, because aha! His job was a killer, really, and did he mention he dislocated his shoulder doing, uhm, office work? Yeah, while pushing papers. 

“Goodbye, Marcus! Nice to meet you. Really. Tell Winston Hellen and I said ‘Hi’.”

“Sure.” It came out dry and cracked. John was standing wide-eyed in his doorway, lingering for too long for comfort. Just before he stepped into the elevator, he turned and raised the wine bottle in a salute. It took forever for the doors to slide shut.

“Holy fucking hell.” By the time he made it to the lobby, Marcus had forgotten all pretense of fitting in, and practically jogged to the door. The doorman gave him a knowing look. 

He had mind to hail a cab, but stood frozen in the middle of the sidewalk. The street was practically empty. His phone started to ring in his pocket, and when he saw that it was Winston he answered immediately, 

“Did it go well?”

“I got paid with a pirate coin. I don’t know. It looks kind of catholic. What the fuck?”

“Oh. I forgot to tell you about that.”

“No shit! You also forgot to tell me the guy’s unhinged. I really don’t know if you set me up,” Marcus was briskly down the street, panting a little. His heart was racing an embarrassing about, “Or if everyone in New York is insane, but I’m done schlepping prescriptions all over the city and fucking _New Jersey_ ! You _know_ I hate Jersey.” 

“Really? I was hoping you could take John on with your regular clientele. I just got a text, he said you two get along swimmingly. Well. He used “great”, but you know what I mean. I’ve already told him yes.”

“N-”

“You sound tired. Maybe head home, hmm? I’ll have Charon work tomorrow, go ahead and take the day off.” Winston hung up.

He stopped walking and stared down at his phone. 5:20. A cab rounded the corner and let a brunette out. She smiled sympathetically at him as she walked by, floating in the direction of the apartment complex down the block. Marcus almost warned her, but then the cab was starting to pull away and he wasn’t about to stand around waiting for another. On the way to his apartment, he finished the stupid rosé.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
